


Pirouette

by Dramatological



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fear, Modern Era, Regency, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4081888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dramatological/pseuds/Dramatological
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Peter's eyes trailed down her dress to the sequins flashing fire with each step forward, then slid back up, catching on her bare neck, the pulse throbbing under pale skin, quickening, now, the low thrum of her heart spiking upward in fear, exhilaration, adrenaline lining her scent with a not unpleasant acidity as she slid to stop in front of him, leaning forward just slightly, hands clasped behind her back, the picture of courtly behavior -- for a gentleman. Ladies were not supposed to be so forward.</i>
</p><p> <i>"May I have this dance?"</i></p><p> <i>As if this were the first time.</i></p><p>---</p><p>A Dance with the Devil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as just a random lark. Then I added a second chapter. So... That's how that went. Still have no idea where it's going.

He was standing near the back wall, at his ease, one shoulder resting against a column. His gaze flickered around the room, stopping to watch someone or something intently before sliding off to lock on something else. It was intense and oddly nerve wracking, as if each person or possession was picked apart to their basest elements, then dismissed, a puzzle now solved and no longer fascinating.

And there she was, sliding carefully around the perimeter, avoiding the couples dancing in the middle and the tables spaced out around the edges, twisting her body carefully and unconsciously to keep the voluminous filmy skirts from catching the furniture, even as they fluttered and twirled with every slightest motion. A ridiculous outfit for a ridiculous mission.

She was going to ask Peter Hale to dance.

His gaze found her moments before she cleared the last table between them, but did not move on, watching her curiously. No one approached Peter Hale willingly, after all. His eyes narrowed fractionally, a twitch of lids, a movement so subtle it could have been easily missed if she hadn't been caught by the sheer pressure of those grey-blues and found herself staring just as hard at him as he was at her.

She paused, one foot hung in front of her, an inch or less from the ground for an instant, as if the frames of her life stuttered like streaming video, before she continued forward, back straight, arms hanging loose and graceful, swaying with the motion of her hips. She stopped in front of him, the words falling out of her mouth before she could think about them, consider the implications, "May I have this dance?"

Peter arched an expressive brow at the girl, his gaze sliding down her dove grey dress before snapping back up, "I'm not part of the festivities, this evening," he said.

The girl stood there for a second, leaning forward just slightly before she relaxed backward and her eyes finally escaped his to wander over the brocade wallpaper behind him, "Is that a no?"

His head turned to one side though his eyes never left her, weighing, considering. A second and he reached for her hand, stepping past her to lead her onto the dance floor. She followed, stumbling to a stop when he turned suddenly and gripped her waist in his free hand, adjusting his grip on her fingers until her arm was curled against his chest in a casual, but intimate imitation of a waltz. He didn't make any other movement, "Do you know the steps?"

She couldn't look at him, her eyes caught on the swirling motion of the other dancers, spinning around them in a flash of silk and chiffon offset by the black of the men's tuxedos, "If my experience is any guide, I believe I stand on your feet while you toddle me about the floor so all the grandmothers can coo at me."

The man smiled at her, the hand at her back pressing her closer as his hips began to sway, brushing against her, rolling against her abdomen. He untangled an index finger from her hand and tapped on her chin, pulling her face forward and up until he caught her eyes again. Still, he made no move to sweep them into the larger dance, "You're afraid of me."

"I know who you are," she said, swallowing. It was an answer. As good an answer as any other. There was no doubt he could smell the fear on her, and no one who knew Peter Hale was not at least a little concerned.

"And yet you ask me to dance," he murmured under his breath, more to himself than her.

She answered as if it were a question, "Yes."

He hummed at that, turning them slowly but still not spinning around the floor with the other couples, an island of calm in a sea of chaos. He pulled her closer all the same, until only their linked hands were between their chests and nothing at all protected her hips from his.

They were silent after that, Peter leading her in a slow, sensual roll, closer to a caress than any sort of waltz. The girl stared at him, caught, breathless and unresisting, her heart vibrating against the cage of her ribs as that single finger stroked slowly over her jawline.

Eventually, the music stopped, and the dance shattered, couples breaking up and floating away, the swirl of people tumbling away into the eddies of the celebration. While Peter stopped his shuffled steps, he did not release her, his hand sliding up her bare back, under the long locks of hair. She could feel the sudden scrape of claws up her spine to tangle in the roots of her hair, holding her head still while he leaned closer. His cheek slid smoothly against hers until his lips brushed her ear, "Run along home, now, Riding Hood."

He held her another moment before pulling back, the claws vanishing as his hand slipped from her back. She took several steps back as their arms uncurled, meeting only a hint of resistance as she reclaimed her fingers from his.

Peter stood, alone on the dance floor, and watched her walk away.


	2. Chapter 2

She was back again, the second month, after a long week of nerves and vacillating back and forth, and arguing with herself and going through at least four seamstresses in the search for a better dress than the throw away she'd worn last month. It was dark crimson, with a low, wide neck, debatably off the shoulder. The cut was almost medieval, with long, wide sleeves and a skirt to match. It lacked ornamentation except for tiny silver sequins picking out a thorn bramble along the hem of the skirt. Anything higher would have ruined the drape of the material, where it clung to her curves. Her long, auburn hair was done up in curls but she'd made sure it still flowed down her back, showing off teasing glimpses of the long, thin cut out, baring her spine from hips to shoulder blades. The seamstress had called it bait for bad wolves and thought she'd been kidding.

And there he was, leaning the same shoulder against the same column, watching the twirl of fall leafs spin around the dance floor. His tuxedo perfectly tailored, the vest just as black but dusted with glints of silver, and the bow tie missing entirely in favor of a mandarin collar with intricate frog closures. His picked her out of the crowd much faster, this time, and nearly moved on again before snapping back, recognition sparking in his eyes. 

She squared her shoulders, walking far more confidently than she felt, slipping easily past the people milling about and talking near the front. No one stopped her, and though she did catch the smiles and nods of greeting directed at her in the corner of her eyes, she only really had eyes for him. It was a scandal going somewhere to happen. The whispers had likely already started, in the darker recesses of the room, about the scene she had caused the last time -- practically making out on the dance floor! 

Peter's eyes trailed down her dress to the sequins flashing fire with each step forward, then slid back up, catching on her bare neck, the pulse throbbing under pale skin, quickening, now, the low thrum of her heart spiking upward in fear, exhilaration, adrenaline lining her scent with a not unpleasant acidity as she slid to stop in front of him, leaning forward just slightly, hands clasped behind her back, the picture of courtly behavior -- for a gentleman. Ladies were not supposed to be so forward. 

"May I have this dance?" 

As if this were the first time. 

His eyes narrowed fractionally, flashing from her neck to her eyes, then out at the room past her shoulder, "Are you sure you're not looking for my nephew?" 

"Has he taken all the spots on your dance card? I'll have to speak with him about his unseemly greed and ill-mannered abandonment. Where shall I find him?" The girl turned to scan the room over one shoulder, as if looking for the young alpha, though it would difficult to miss him. When she turned back he had taken a step closer, looming over her now with the barest flash of ice blue in his eyes before fading back to a more normal color. 

She almost stumbled backward but he caught her by a shoulder in a hard grip, "Quick witted, even while terrified," he murmured, low and quiet, a sly smile spreading over his features. Before she could respond his hand slid down her arm to her hand and he was leading her out into the organized chaos of the dance floor. 

There was no slow embrace, this time. The man swept her into a well-practiced embrace and spun her into the larger pattern, the girl stumbling before she caught up and her legs moved in the correct order through sheer muscle memory. Her hand found his shoulder and she fought to breath normally instead of the hitched gasping of startlement. 

She was almost normal again, starting to enjoy the motion, the flash of color and light, the spin of shadows and faces, the music and laughter and Peter's warm hand burning an imprint into her lower back. 

He found the cut out and slipped two fingers under the hem, resting the tips against the hidden flesh as if by accident, "You have me at a disadvantage." 

The girl's teeth caught her lower lip for a second before pulling free as she answered, unable to look up at him, "I believe you may be sorely mistaken about our relative positions," she answered. 

She gasped softly as his claws appeared, scraping lightly over her spine, "Not at all," he growled, pulling her closer, just slightly closer than the dance called for, not enough to cause a scene, but plenty far to prove his point. He pulled their hands in to catch her chin with a finger, pulling it up until she gave him her eyes, "But I do not know your name." 

Her lips were parted, her skin flushed, tiny beads of sweat were gathering at her hairline, but she managed to keep moving in all the right steps, "That does seem unfair," she conceded in a breath, though she offered nothing else. 

Another grin, then, "As you wish, Riding Hood. Take your dance, and keep your secrets. But you'll have to do something for me." 

"Are you always so mercenary about dancing?" 

"Not for the dancing, my dear. For the sexual services. Ah, ah…" He caught her chin as she tried to look away, pulling it back up, "Don't hide, now. Now is when it gets interesting." 

The girl just stared at him, finally out of things to say, the fear in her scent spiking. 

Peter laughed softly, a bare chuckle, "I don't wrestle naive girls to the ground and rut them mid ball, my dear, you're thinking of other dances. Dances you don't go to. I have much better things in mind." He winked at her, "Partner swap." 

Before she could voice her confusion, he lifted her hand up over her head and spun her around into the waiting arms of the next man in line. She gasped, her knees going weak for a moment before she could get control back, looking up the kindly gentleman who was now guiding her through the complex pattern of twirling couples and opening spaces. He didn't hold her too close, he didn't slide his fingers into her dress, he didn't seem to care that she wasn't looking at him. He was the picture of a court lord with a lady. 

She went through the motions, breaking and re-forming with three other partners. She made polite but distracted conversation, though she missed steps every time she spotted Peter through the crowd, acting the picture of a court lord with whoever he was with, but his eyes were locked on her. 

Before she knew it, she was spinning back into his arms, and his grin was back, and his hand was back, and his navel was brushing against hers in an improper manner. She gasped, "My lord, I believe I've given you the wrong impression…" she trailed off when he started laughing again. 

"As you wish, Riding Hood," he repeated, glancing about the room before recapturing her focused attention, "But should you find yourself in the upstairs wash room, second door on the right, and leave your panties before you go, I'll consider the debt paid." 

The music stopped and he stopped moving, pulling back, still holding one hand as he bowed deeply and she curtseyed on instinct. When he came up, he smiled at her then caught her by an elbow as she turned to leave, "And should you return, next month? Don't wear any." His grin was fangy, almost feral, and she didn't respond as she slipped away, vanishing into the crowd. 

Peter watched her go, raising his fingers to his lips to savor the scent of her still on them. 

"No." The voice was deep, intimidating, almost a growl. 

Peter was not intimidated, "Nephew." 

"No, Peter. The last thing we need is you taking advantage of some baron's daughter. That's the sort of thing they bring out the torches and pitchforks for." 

Peter finally turned a wounded look on the younger man, "If anyone is getting taken advantage of here, It's me." He held out his fingers, "Try it." 

Derek's eyebrows were drawn together, past even his usual glower, "I am not smelling your fingers." 

Peter shrugged, turning back to watching the crowd, "Suit yourself." 

"No more, you understand?" 

The alpha was not letting the matter go and Peter growled in frustration before turning on him, "Oh, please. She comes here, she gets her thrills dancing with the bad wolf, then scurries home to bang her whitebread boyfriend like the wanton whore she wishes she could be. He congratulates himself on his prowess and slips off to sleep while she finishes herself off in the bathroom, thinking of me. And in the morning she goes back to planning her wedding around her father's business concerns. It's how the upper class works, nephew. The sooner you learn that, the sooner you can stop holding these balls to continue to delude yourself that one of these _women_ will be whelping your pups because you love each other." 

Neither wolf glanced at the slender young man standing next to the buffet and stuffing food in his mouth in between surreptitious looks to ensure he wasn't being seen doing so. Neither had to. Peter had effectively ended the conversation, however. 

He straightened his jacket, "If you'll excuse me, I have a debt to collect."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame this on MarlenaWatches.


End file.
